


the other shoe

by stilinskisparkles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisparkles/pseuds/stilinskisparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re lounging on Derek’s bed one afternoon, Stiles halfheartedly trying to make headway on an essay, and Derek’s <i>supposedly</i> helping. Instead, Derek’s spent the last eight minutes mouthing lazily at Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles is five seconds from giving up completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the other shoe

**Author's Note:**

> as requested this is now on ao3!

~*~

Stiles is in the cereal aisle when it hits him. It’s like a goddamn freight train, heart thudding hard against his chest as he clutches at the box of bran flakes he’d picked up and grinned at five seconds before. He’s madly,  _ridiculously_  in love with Derek. He stares down at the cereal, face heating up and hears Derek before he sees him. Derek, who is a dramatic living embodiment of everything Stiles didn’t realize he wanted until it literally sort of leapt out of the shadows at him. Fuck, he’s so gone. Derek’s barging past a host of flustered shoppers, clutching two loaves of bread but looking like he’s about to throw down as he gets closer to Stiles.

“Stiles!”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, waving the box in Derek’s face. “Just your regular Friday night meltdown in the supermarket over which brand is best.”

Derek’s gaze flicks from his face, to behind them, and then to the box with the dumb picture of an old dude that happens to have wild, bushy eyebrows which led to Stiles’ revelation, and his concerned expression slides into confusion.

“What.”

“I—” Stiles licks his lips, and then looks down at the bread hanging limply in Derek’s hands. “Were you gonna use those as weapons?”

“They might have come in handy,” Derek sniffs, suddenly looking awkward.

“Against what? A raging hoard of ducks?”

“A brace.”

“What?”

“A group of ducks is a brace, a brace of… Never mind,” Derek rolls his eyes even as his cheeks pink up and Stiles feels his heart  _flip_.

“Oh, fuck, Derek, I love you.”

Derek stares at him for a moment, eyes huge and more than a little hopeful. He holds up the two bags of bread. “I didn’t—I was trying to think of an argument for wholegrain because it’s better for you, but I knew you’d end up wanting white anyway. I was holding both when you—when you started—” He lowers the bags, lets Stiles take the wholegrain off him and put it in the cart. “I love you, too,” he says finally, so quietly Stiles might have missed it were he not so in tune to  _everything_  Derek does or says.

Stiles twists to smile at him, and hesitantly Derek smiles back. His shoulders are still tense, as if he’s expecting Stiles to blurt out  _surprise, motherfucker!_  Or, for there really to have been a dangerous brace of ducks lurking in aisle four. After a moment his face goes soft and they’re standing like fools in the middle of the aisle grinning at each other.

“Cool,” Stiles says lightly, dropping his hands to the bar of the cart so they can progress before he does something stupid like jump Derek. He barely moves an inch before Derek’s grabbing at the front of his shirt and yanking him away from the cart to kiss him breathless. Stiles loses his footing and falls into Derek’s chest, startled laughter getting in the way of returning the kiss properly for a moment before he slides a hand to rest on Derek’s chest, feels his heart racing underneath the soft cotton and slinks the other into Derek’s hair.

Someone clears their throat behind them and Derek huffs crossly as Stiles pulls away. They twist and Stiles feels his face heat up all over again as an old lady raises her eyebrows at them both.

“Could you pass me a box of porridge if you’re planning on being there long, dear?”

Stiles fumbles for a box, loath to let go of Derek for very long and waves it at her. “Uh, sorry.”

She nods her thanks, smirking as she turns away and Stiles peeks a look at Derek.

“So,” he coughs into his hand. “Shall we go get—”

“We’re paying now,” Derek cuts in firmly, pushing the cart towards the check out.

“But—”

“We can come back later.”

Stiles  _knows_  that tone of voice, he  _knows_  the set of Derek’s shoulders,  _oh ho_ , Stiles is getting  _laid_.

“Sure,” he says casually, following Derek at a snail’s pace. “Although, I really did want to see if they had Ben & Jerry’s on half off…”

Derek flashes a look over his shoulder, smirks at him. “You can eat it alone on the walk back to mine if you like.”

“I’m coming!” Stiles jumps to catch up, dances a little beside Derek at the checkout, and Derek smacks his ass to get him to stop. Derek sucks at finding way to calm him down.

Whatever, Stiles  _loves_  him anyway.

*

Sometimes, Derek holds Stiles like he’s afraid Stiles is about to drift away. It’s not too tight, or overwhelming, it’s just firm, constant, unrelenting. Stiles goes to sleep and wakes up with Derek still all around him. When they have sex Derek’s eyes flutter shut and he bites at his bottom lip like he’s afraid if he lets loose Stiles will run away.  He gets a little edgy if they don’t have some form of contact all day.

Stiles would call it clingy from anyone else, but it’s Derek and he’d be a hypocrite to complain because he can’t  _stand_  being away from Derek for too long. He meets people at college, and they’re fun and hilarious, and he makes friends and acquaintances all the time. But, they’re never Derek. They don’t sway from acerbic, sarcastic asshole to achingly sweet idiot in thirty seconds flat. They don’t look at him like he’s changing their world just by being there. They don’t make his insides feel jittery and nervous all the time.

They’re lounging on Derek’s bed one afternoon, Stiles halfheartedly trying to make headway on an essay, and Derek’s  _supposedly_  helping. Instead, Derek’s spent the last eight minutes mouthing lazily at Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles is five seconds from giving up completely.

“You are a  _bad_  influence,” he complains, tossing down his pen and twisting to reach for Derek.

Derek who is no longer half on top of him, but sitting up against the headboard looking like a deer caught in head lights.

“Woah, I didn’t say it was something I wasn’t inclined to be persuaded by. Come back here!”

“Do your work,” Derek says firmly. 

“Derek—”

“It’s college, Stiles,” Derek says softly. “I can wait.”

“But—” Stiles makes grabby hands. “There was supposed to be kissing!”

The smile he gets doesn’t reach Derek’s eyes, and there’s a strain in the air all afternoon.

Classes pass in a blur for a week, Derek’s phone calls are short, cautious in a way they haven’t been in years. Stiles frowns down at Derek’s half asleep contact image, a picture of adorable nobody would believe if he wanted to share, and bites his bottom lip. Something is amiss.

“You wanna split?” Stiles waves the last brownie in the box at Derek on Saturday night where they're cocooned in Derek's apartment, and Derek shakes his head.

“’S’all yours.”

Stiles shifts to look at him on the couch. Stiles knows Derek pretty damn well. They’ve been together over a year, he knows the way Derek looks first thing in the morning, and his terrible driving habits, he knows about Derek’s love of Chrysanthemums—keeps them in a bowl by the door—and what makes his body tick. He can tell by the way Derek’s holding himself he’s almost…  _poised for a fight_. He sighs and gets up off the couch.

“Stiles—”

“I’ll be right back,” he yells, disappearing to the front door and grabbing one of his sneakers. When he gets back to the couch Derek’s frowning, and he’s even tenser than before. Stiles drops the sneaker onto the table with a flourish.

“There.”

Derek looks between him and the shoe. “What.”

“That’s the other shoe, Derek. It has officially dropped.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I—”

“You keep acting like I’m gonna disappear, or like you’re gonna do something wrong and I’m gonna run screaming from you. Derek, you threw up black goo on my shoes, you once slashed someone’s neck in front of me, you and Scott—everything we’ve been through, and seen. I know who you are, and what you’re capable of, and I love you because of all of it. I love everything, ok? I’m not afraid of what you’re capable of, and I love your smartass comments, and the way you look out for Scott, and your dumb teeth and I just—you don’t need to worry, ever, about me being someone else who’s gonna hurt you.”

Derek stays very still for a moment, and then tugs Stiles down on top of him, wordlessly nudging Stiles’ face up with his nose until they make eye contact.

“My dumb teeth?”

“Yeah, ‘specially those,” Stiles hums fondly, thumbing at Derek’s bottom lip. “You get me?” He clutches Derek’s jaw firmly and holds his gaze. “Because as nice as it is to get away with everything; I kind of miss you being a crosspatch.”

Derek snorts, leans to rest his forehead against Stiles’ collarbone. “I get it,” he says finally.

“Can we get more brownies? I think I squashed that one with my shoe.”

“It was impressively dramatic,” Derek points out.

“You know me,” Stiles squirms in his lap. “I like to make a scene.”

“Technically a shoe on the table is bad luck.”

“Oh, baby, I think we’ve reached the quota for that this century.”

Derek’s eyes drag over his face and then he smiles, the much more sincere, tiny one that makes Stiles feel like he’s basking in the  _sun_. “I hope so.”

That’s enough for Stiles.

*

“Is it my birthday?”

Derek straightens from where he’d been leaning on the doorjamb and grins. “Nope.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Is this a booty call?”

“No,” Derek rolls his eyes, steps around Stiles and lets their hands brush as he passes. “We’re going out.”

Stiles looks down at the joggers and Derek’s gigantic training shirt he’s been wearing all day. “It’s Sunday.”

Derek casts a glance over the apartment, nods at Scott who’s practically comatose on the couch, and then back at Stiles, who slowly shuts the door once he realizes his super hot boyfriend is not a mirage of too many Cheetos and staring at the television for twelve hours.

“We could just stay in if you prefer,” Derek’s eyes flash for a second and Stiles swallows.

“You said this wasn’t a booty call, I shall feel used if it becomes one.”

“Liar,” Derek steps over several cans of Redbull and wrinkles up his nose. “When did you two last take out the garbage?”

Stiles shrugs. “Dunno, Monday?”

Derek shrugs off his jacket and Stiles whistles even as he’s getting it thrown in his face. “I’m just showing my appreciation!”

“You can appreciate it later, by yourself, on your side of the bed,” Derek threatens. Lying liar, he’d never be able to resist Stiles naked and writhing next to him. Stiles knows because he’s done it before—sleep is for the weak— jerking himself off, muttering Derek’s name and waiting barely any time at all for him to join the party is a much more fun way to spend the evening.

“Here,” Derek waves rubber gloves at him and Stiles smirks.

“You shouldda said something about a kink fest, boo—”

“I swear to god, Stiles,” Scott groans, clambering over the couch and heading for his room.

Derek watches him go looking faintly amused and then turns back to Stiles with a much firmer look. “We’re cleaning.”

“But—Sunday! The day of rest, Derek, and maybe lazy hand jobs later.”

“I wasn’t planning on coming over until this afternoon, who were you going to be doing that with?”

“Scott, duh.”

“Two and a half years and the jokes about Scott still aren’t funny,” Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Go figure.”

“You know you’re the only one for me,” Stiles sing songs, whipping at Derek’s ass with one of the gloves.

“What a relief,” Derek mutters, even as his shoulders are losing their tension in front of  _Stiles’ eyes_.

“Hey, why  _did_  you come over? All dressed up in your  _special_  leather jacket as well.” Stiles isn’t saying the jacket is a bad thing, it’s his favorite, their first time may have hinged on Derek wearing that jacket for the entirety of their ‘date’ beforehand.

Derek mumbles something into the cupboard under the sink Stiles doesn’t catch and when he straightens up he almost jumps at how close Stiles is standing behind him.

“What was that?”

“Go away with your interrogatory face.”

“Please, you  _love_  this face. This face turns you on, and you can’t even deny it. I’m pretty sure you tried to write a sonnet about it when you were high on that wolfsbane strain last year.”

Derek’s cheeks go pink and he turns to fill the sink with water. Stiles hops up onto the counter, waits him out. Derek clunks dishes around for a few minutes, scrubbing at them haphazardly, and Stiles watches his hands. He loves Derek’s hands; they’re so strong and capable, and they do things to Stiles, and hold Cora’s baby so fucking gently, and they’re just really nice hands.

“Isaac said we were boring,” Derek says to his very nice hands.

Stiles chokes on his own tongue. “Boring?”

Derek sighs, tips his head back and Stiles reaches for him without thinking, pulls him along the counter until he’s fitted snugly between Stiles’ legs.

“Said we were set in our ways when I told him I wasn’t coming to see you till Tuesday.”

“Tuesdays are awesome,” Stiles huffs crossly. “Tuesdays are fucking date nights.” He pauses and rethinks what he’s said. “Huh, we have date nights. Ok,” he shrugs. “So, we have standing appointments. Not gonna lie, buddy, kind of enjoy the idea that it’s almost a definite thing you’re gonna show up in my life at least once a week. Kinda miss you when you’re not around as it is. Long distance with Derek Hale, who’d have thought.” He shrugs again and winds his arms round Derek’s neck. “So, you thought you’d be spontaneous?”

“Yeah,” Derek coughs like he’s suddenly embarrassed and Stiles makes a noise of what has to be adoration.

“You’re so fucking  _cute_.”

“Shut up,” Derek huffs.

“No, seriously, with the surprise visiting and the washing my dishes.”

“I’m rethinking my life choices here.”

“You’re not at all,” Stiles states plainly, kissing Derek’s frown and hopping from the counter. “Tell you what, help me pack these into the dishwasher we have  _right here_ , I’ll go change, then we can go get tacos and walk along the promenade like we’re ninety and old and boring as hell. It’ll be nice.”

When he turns to look expectantly at Derek he finds him smiling fondly.

“What?”

Derek shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets. “You’re just really fucking cute.”

“Am  _not_.”

“Are.”

“You’re sexy, too. But, cute,” Derek saunters out of the kitchen, grabbing his jacket as he does. “I’ll be by the door waiting. You’re putting the dishes away because you’ve never once told me you had a dishwasher here.”

“I—you—I like your hands!”

*

Stiles steps out of the shower, haphazardly running a hand through his hair and pondering getting it trimmed. He likes it longer,  _Derek_  likes it longer; likes tugging on it, running his hands through it, practically petting it when they’re lying all over each other on the couch. He’d think maybe Derek only loved him for his hair if he hadn’t lost his patience with it over finals in first year and shaved it all off. Derek had looked a little surprised over skype, as much as a minimal lift of his eyebrows could imply  _shock and awe_ , but had focused instead on offering as much support as possible and pointing out Stiles really  _did_  want to go to college for a reason. Stiles still suspects he was reading from a list of  _things an awesome boyfriend should say when their other half is panicking over exams_  that he’d highjacked from the internet. It was pretty instrumental in making sure he didn’t give up and come home if he’s honest. That and knowing eventually he  _could_  go home, and be there forever with his dad and Scott and Derek.

He stares a little blearily at all the products scattered on their bathroom counter.

“Scott!”

“Yo?”

“Which of these is yours?”

Scott ambles into the bathroom of their shared apartment, unperturbed by Stiles’ state of undress, and glances at the collected bottles and lotions.

“Uh, this one,” he claims a half empty moisturizer of Allison’s, and as an afterthought a much fuller bottle of Nivea for Men. Stiles rolls his eyes, then frowns at the rest.

“Well, the toothpaste’s mine, but who’s is all the cologne?”

Scott snorts. “Dude, all of that crap’s Derek’s.”

Stiles pokes suspiciously at something in a pot. “What, this?”

“Yeah, ‘s’for your skin,” Scott claps a hand to Stiles’ own cheek and gives him a shit eating grin. “If you ever had to shave you’d know what it felt like to get dry patches.”

“Fuck you,” he says easily, batting his friend’s arm away. “Seriously, though. This is all Derek’s?”

Scott shrugs. “Yeah, I mean he practically lives here, dude.”

Stiles casts a look at the toothbrushes they have in a glass, his green one next to Derek’s pink one (two for one, fuck yeah Stiles knows how to bargain shop the way his mama taught him), and Scott’s bright red sparkly one. He looks down at the towel he’s wearing that has  _Stilinski_  written in faded ink on the label (Isaac’s idea of a hilarious joke in case Stiles was ever to get lost on campus, he even fucking labeled Stiles’  _pants_ ), it was his only clean towel because he and Derek did laundry at the weekend. There’s a henley drying on the radiator, and dirty words smudging away in the steam of the shower glass he wrote months ago to give Derek a nice wakeup call the next time he used it. Allison used it next and was mildly impressed at Stiles’ extensive vocabulary, Derek was mortified, Stiles is  _maybe_  a little apologetic about the stick figures.

“Why did no one mention this?”

Scott shrugs. “Thought you knew, and Allison’s here all the time. It’s not like it’s news, bro.”

“It is to me! How long has he been living here?”

“Since like the day we moved in,” Scott frowns at him. “He goes back to his place like once a week, Isaac is here more than at their apartment. Why are you looking all… weird?” He wiggles his fingers in Stiles’ face and Stiles takes a step back.

“Because I had plans to like… officially ask him if he wanted to get a place! There were rose petals involved!”

Scott scrunches up his nose. “Dude.”

“Ok, so there weren’t rose petals involved, but I was kind of going to make a big deal of it!”

“You still can,” Scott promises. “Go over tomorrow and like… romance him?”

“Thank you for looking so  _very_  pained saying that, dude. When I have listened to you talk about Allison’s new love for purple nail polish before, and managed to keep a straight face.”

“Sorry,” Scott smiles balefully at him. “Do you want to talk about Derek’s eyelashes or something?”

“No! Maybe… Ask me the next time I’m drunk.”

“Deal,” Scott pats him on the shoulder. “So, you’re really gonna ask Derek to move in with you?  _Derek_.”

Stiles taps his chin. “Well, Allison does clean up after herself more than both of you, and I did catch her giving me come hither eyes last weekend…”

Scott removes his hand to punch his arm. “Funny.”

“Yes,” Stiles exhales sharply. “Fuck, I’m gonna ask Derek to move in with me.”

“If he cries film it for me,” Scott says airily, leaving the room.

“Fucker. Hey, it’s not too fast, right?”

“Nah,” Scott pops his head back round the door. “I mean, it’s been like three years, dude.”

“Four,” Stiles corrects absently.

Scott’s eyes widen. “That’s longer than me and Allison.”

“Not technically.”

“Shit, I have to ask Allison to move in with me.”

“That’s not how it works, Scotty.”

“She’s got another year for teacher training, she’s still…” Scott pulls a face. “Where am I gonna live?”

Stiles hesitates. “Dude, I can totally stay—”

“What?!” Scott laughs suddenly. “You’ve got heart eyes just fucking thinking about living with Derek, man, even though  _I_  can hear him snoring some nights, and our rooms are on opposite sides of our place. I’m totally cool with you like—spreading your wings,” he starts humming under his breath and Stiles grabs the nearest pot of moisturizer and plants it on his head.

When Derek shows up the next morning with the papers, Stiles hands him a coffee that comes with free kisses and then sits down and circles the first five apartments he sees in the lettings section with fire escapes and two bedrooms. Derek watches him, lifts a questioning eyebrow and Stiles shrugs, taps the highlighter against his teeth looking back at him calmly. Derek takes the marker off him and crosses the one closest to Beacon Hills High off, then nods at the next one.

It’s decided.

*

“Fuck, we should make that a tradition.”

Stiles flops boneless and breathless down next to Derek on the carpet and blinks up at the Christmas tree lights. Derek slides a hand down his chest, pats his hip.

“Yeah.”

“Like our Christmas tradition should be we fight about where to put the tree, fight about what goes on top of the tree, then have sex under the tree, always.”

Derek twists his head to look at him for a second, lifts his hand to trace a finger across Stiles’ cheekbone.

“No presents?” he asks hoarsely.

Stiles shakes his head, sits up on one elbow. “Unless you have your heart set on something really special? When I was a kid I wanted a Batmobile.”

“I wanted a bike,” Derek scratches behind Stiles’ ear, lets his hand fall away. “Peter bought me a bell once, thought he was hilarious.”

Stiles catches Derek’s hand as it falls, kisses his knuckles. They don’t talk about Peter much, sometimes, in the dead of night when Derek is overcome with a sudden, paralyzing fear their life, the hard earned safety pieced together fragment by fragment will somehow be shattered again. Stiles knows for certain Peter Hale will never come back; he and Lydia dealt with the remains themselves.

“You want a bike this year?”

Derek shakes his head, eyes soft and void of any fear as he blinks at Stiles.

“Just socks.”

“Socks I can do.” They’re quiet for a moment, and Stiles feels his heartbeat returning to normal after the sudden removal of clothing and fierce, perfect sex in their very own apartment. A smirk creeps onto his face. “You can always ride me, you know, I’ll be your bicycle.”

Derek covers his face with his hands. “Your New Year’s Resolution should be no shit innuendos for a whole year.”

“Oh, please, you’d miss them.”

On Christmas morning Stiles sits in bed and watches Derek open eight parcels, all filled with socks. They’re all dumb novelty ones with different superheroes, robots and hearts and days of the week on, Derek looks pleased nonetheless. Then Stiles chucks a box at him and says that’s his last present, and the one he actually thought about. Derek pulls at the paper whilst simultaneously tugging his feet into Tuesday socks. He opens the box to a handful of membership cards; a gym Stiles knows he goes to sometimes, a library card, a bunch of museums and galleries in the area, all with his name on and laminated. Stiles made a list and went round town, meticulously ticking places off. He wants Derek to feel like he has a home, like he’s wanted, like he has a place that’s  _for_  him. He thinks Derek gets it by the long, slow kiss he gets in thanks.

*

Stiles storms out of the kitchen and into the living room where Derek and Isaac are couched out in front of the television, arguing mildly over which girl should win the latest cycle of America’s Next Top Model.

“Derek!”

Derek arches a lazy eyebrow at him, feet clad in a pair of Stiles’ oldest, warmest socks and fingers dangling over the couch.

Isaac fucking  _pauses_  the episode and squirms to face them, clearly expecting a show. Stiles nudges at him with his foot in a wordless  _shut up_.

Derek sits forward slowly, places his beer on the table and Stiles immediately shifts it onto a coaster, it’s really not that hard to reach the extra inch. Derek smirks like he knows what Stiles is thinking, then rearranges his face into something Stiles assumes he thinks is  _contrite_.

“You need a hand in the kitchen?”

Stiles drops the burnt to a crisp banana nut loaf into Derek’s lap, and Derek jerks up in surprise.

“A hand?! I asked you to remember one thing while I was out, and did you?”

Derek glances down at the loaf, now on the floor, and Isaac snickers.

“I’m guessing no.”

Stiles whirls on him. “How many times have you been in the kitchen this afternoon?”

“Uh,” Isaac looks around wildly. “Uh.”

“Twice,” Derek mutters behind him.

“Throwing me to the wolves, thanks,” Isaac snaps. “Like I’m gonna be your best man after that.”

“Best—what—” Stiles steps forward, slips on the loaf crumbs, and then there’s darkness.

When he comes round, Derek’s sitting beside their bed, holding his hand and staring at him with the sort of determination normally only involved with when he’s trying to beat someone at Mario Karts.

“Ouch,” he mumbles, and Derek’s hand tightens round his.

“Stiles, I’m sorry I ruined your cake, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jesus, don’t—”

“Woah,” Stiles croaks. “Slow your roll, baby, I’m ok, right?”

“Yeah, you just hit your head and I—shit,” Derek exhales. “You can’t scare the crap out of me like that.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Stiles winces and rubs at his head with his free hand. “Did Isaac leave?”

“No,” Derek looks up as Isaac appears by the door.

“Come here, idiot,” Stiles says at the panicked look on his face, and pats Isaac’s hair as Isaac half climbs onto the bed to hug him. “Don’t worry, banana loaf cake will not be the end of me,” he promises. He glances at Derek again. “How long was I out?”

“Eight minutes.”

“And you carried me to bed?!”

“I checked for spinal injury first.”

“Good to know  _some_  of the stuff I say goes in.”

Derek looks pained and Isaac snorts. “I’ll go buy you a freaking loaf cake.”

“It was for Scott’s birthday! It’s his favorite!”

“I know a store where there’s something almost as nice,” Isaac assures him, heading to leave and clapping Derek on the shoulder as he passes. 

Stiles fiddles with the sheets, and then moves to get up. Derek lurches from his post beside the bed and Stiles’ arms are filled with a weighty, cuddly Derek Hale.

“Oof, ok, hi.”

“You haff to stay in bed,” Derek slurs into his neck. “Concussion rule.”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“You might. You need to stay—alive,” he says finally. “You belong here.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says softly, stroking a hand through his hair. “Hey, what was that about Isaac being your best man?”

Derek freezes in place and Stiles grins at the top of his head. “’S’cool cos I asked Scott like five years ago.”

“’S’good then,” Derek mutters, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ shoulder and then kissing it before he melts back into the bed with Stiles where he belongs.

 

 


End file.
